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OOC: Dice rolls decided the encounter. Three, to be precise. Archmage Augusta's eyes are restless as she scans Lordamere Lake for signs of the Kirin Mora fleet. While it would be easy to see incoming ships from a vast distance had the line of sight to be clear, there are many mountains, bays and inlets that the enemy fleet could be harboured in. As she rides, she can see that General Marius is nervous. Though he is a military genius, the unexpected always presents challenges, and Augusta can see the strain on his face as he thinks and calculates. Numbers; chances. Odds. A stray arrow here, a soldier slain by an unlucky blow there. Such little triggers in a situation can affect the outcome of history. It was something Javali, her master, had always seemed to understand. Marius was not going to overlook the details. The Western Legion begins to round the narrow roads leading to Ambermill, marching side by side in a thin line past the lakeshore. All is calm. To the west are highlands, and to the north is Port Ambermill. It is a small town connected to the small city that the Western Legion hopes to take. By some ill turn of fate, several warships of the Kirin Mora are soon sighted rounding the bend of one of the bays. They are fresh vessels, heading straight for Port Ambermill. From their location, they can easily spot the Western Legion. "We must get the army to open ground, or we'll be funnelled in these narrow beaches!" General Marius cries to Augusta. "Ride ahead with your magi and buy us time!" Augusta leads a charge of riders ahead of the columns, and into the open farms and fields of the Ambermill region. Slowly but surely, the Western Legion is assuming formations and entering the locality safely. However, the Kirin Mora ships are fast approaching. Augusta can also see that the local militia of Port Ambermill is more than ready for them. The distant town is flanked by barricades and soldiers. They even have a few siege weapons. It is not long before the warships are sailing in range of the Western Legion's exposed side. A distant call is heard. It is a gruff and raspy voice which Augusta cannot mistake. It is the voice of Archmage Saadhal, the blind majordomo of Grigori Dosantos of the Kirin Mora. "Paint the beaches with their blood!" A hail of arrows flies from the decks of the warships and cascades into the marching ranks of the Western Legion. Archmage Augusta exchanges glances with her magi, and suddenly knows what must be done. "We will burn those ships. Ride with me." Augusta rides with all haste to the shoreline, and begins to lead her spellcasters in channeling. Fire is the element of choice, and it is directed at the nearest warship. It is as if the wind itself catches fire, and glides towards the enemy vessel in a tempest. Just as the wall of flames is about to reach the warship, it is buffeted by an unseen force and vanishes. Meanwhile, casualties continue to mount as arrows rip the Western Legion apart. Augusta can barely make out General Marius riding through the ranks, spurring his men on to reach safety in the open fields away from the shore. Augusta sighs and turns to face her magi once more. "They've got anti-magic fields. We may breach them, but it will cost too much time. Serena." "Yes, milady?" "Remain here with ten of our number to continue firing at the ships. The rest of you are with me. The ships are open to one thing. Teleportation." General Marius is alerted to the sound of an explosion, nearly scaring his horse into a frenzy. He looks to the sea; and is startled. His heart lifts as he sees one of the warships ablaze. The magi must have found a way to break the Kirin Mora's defenses. Soon, the result is repeated. Another ship simply explodes. The noise is overwhelming. His soldiers cheer and rush on to the fields. Marius can see that the Port Ambermill militia are rallying to strike, but they are a preferable enemy to face than ships at sea. Suddenly, a blaze of light blinds Marius temporarily. He blinks to see Augusta and a handful of her magi standing before him. They must have teleported. Between them, they carry the limp figure of a wizard. His hair is grey and his form is battered and bloodied. The old man is held upright only by the effort of the magi alongside him. He wears a blindfold. This stirs Marius' memory. It must be none other than - "Archmage Saadhal." Augusta exclaims. "We teleported onto the Kirin Mora vessels and captured him. In doing so, we broke the anti-magic fields on their crafts. The Kirin Mora fleet is in full retreat." Marius nods. "We suffered heavy casualties, but nothing out of this world. You impress me, Archmage Augusta." "My thanks, General Marius." she replies. "But now, I think we have another problem at hand. Our forces are not yet safely through, and I think that our enemies are making their move on land. Whatever the case, we have a valuable political prisoner." Saadhal raises his head and smiles. "I can see you, you know." He removes the blindfold. His eyes are clear. Marius grits his teeth. "This is not Archmage Saadhal. Augusta, how can you have made this mistake?" Augusta looks over the man again and gasps. "He must have cast an illusion, I-" Then the man closes his hands around the necklace at his throat. He takes a deep breath, and mutters something. The necklace flares. A blast of energy ripples from the object, tearing through the decoy's flesh, and striking through several of Augusta's magi. It continues, shredding ranks of soldiers before dying out. Marius is left speechless. "By the gods. You nearly got us killed, woman!" Augusta barely avoided being hit. She seems even more stunned than Marius. "I had no way of knowing in the heat of battle; how could Saadhal have anticipated this?" "You said there was an anti-magic field? And you can conveniently teleport aboard?" They both turn to see the remaining warships anchor at a safe distance. Augusta silently swears to herself that she will never make such a mistake again. On the other side of Hesperia, General Fabian Leo and the Eastern Legion continue their operations in Tarren Mill. Relief is given to the needy, and with the purification process for the wells underway, the populace seems sedated. There are still several important matters to attend to, however. It has yet to be deduced who is behind the poisoning of the wells, and if Alterac does plan on invading. Agents are dispatched. Hareveim move in the night, prepared to exact information. Leo is invited to rest with Mayor Juntridge in his manor, but he refuses, choosing to stay with his own men in their grand encampment on the outskirts of town. By morning light, a messenger arrives, summoning General Leo to the town hall. There, he finds Mayor Juntridge and a strange man, dressed in orange and black attire. "What do you need, Mayor?" Leo asks, taking a seat before the two figures. Mayor Juntridge is a nervous fellow, twitching and sniffing at random. The man at his side is no more pleasant, with a slight sneer on his face. Juntridge says his part. "This man here is an emissary from Alterac. He wanted to speak with you." "Well, I am here." Leo affirms, and looks the newcomer in the eyes. "What can I do for you?" The man acknowledges Leo and folds his arms. "It has come to the attention of Regent Lord, recently appointed High General His Other Majesty Highness Master Gabranth of Alterac, servant of Lord Xie, that Dalaran be sending large army north. They send me here, I, yes, to ask w'hai." "Pardon, emissary?" Leo asks, cocking his head. "W'hai." Juntridge clears his throat and intervenes. "I think the man is trying to ask you why you have mobilized your forces." Leo composes himself and stands to his full height. "We have reason to believe that Alterac is initiating hostilities with Tarren Mill. We come here in the name of the Hesperian Alliance to intervene in case of such hostilities. Can you please affirm or deny such political tension?" The emissary manages his best smile. His expression looks like that of a man dying from poison. "I, that be me, Messenger Prax under his Lordship Gabranth who just loves to be serving Lord Xie, can clearly say that yes, we - No. I mean no. We are your friends." "Hmmm." That same evening, Archmage Franek Snowburn approaches Leo in the grand encampment. The general is seated by a campfire, drinking some rather unpleasant looking porridge. "Really, General." Franek begins, with a look of distaste on his face. "I know it is typical of a good general to subject himself to the same conditions as his soldiers; but for once, get some rest and some good food. It upsets me to see you drinking mud." Leo remains impassive. "Can I help you, Franek?" The Archmage suddenly looks rather distressed. It is not unusual for him. He has had an aura of uneasiness about him ever since Javali became dictator. Franek had been one of the Council of Six to vote in Javali's favour, and had become one of his highest ranking officials because of it. However, the recent turmoil seems to have upset him a great deal. "It's not me you need to help. General Leo, the Hareveim we sent out have brought back some interesting information. One of the mayor's clerks ratted him out. I think the mayor is actually in contact with General Gabranth of Alterac. Directly." "What does this mean, then?" Leo asks, rising and dusting himself off. "It means that the mayor might be working with Alterac behind our backs. Of course, it could be anything. I don't suggest you confront him about it yet. I could send for the clerk if you wish." Back in Dalaran, Javali and Ulyssan sit comfortably in one of Dalaran's pleasant gardens. They are making pleasant conversation; something that Javali has not done in months. His new role as dictator has left him unable to talk to anyone. All he has had time to do is give orders. Ulyssan has turned out to be a refreshing and charming change. They are interrupted when Zinizar storms into the gardens, tailed by at least a dozen elves wearing green ritual garments. Javali rises to his feet hastily. "What's this, Zinizar?" "These elves are the cause of the disturbance, Javali. They tried to open a portal which got redirected and blew up one of the streets. They're from Quel'Thalas." One of the elves pushes his way to the forefront. "Let me explain myself, Zinizar. I have a tongue." he says proudly. "Lord Javali, I am Kariel Winthalus, master of the Benefactors. We are the pagan lords of Quel'Thalas. We congratulate you on your recent... policies." "Why have you come here?" Javali asks calmly, but plainly. "Because the world is changing!" Kariel exclaims. "I can feel it in the water... I can smell it... in the air. Much that once was, is lost, for none now live, who remember it." Javali raises an eyebrow. Kariel continues. "I come because the Prophet of the Four Gods; the old man of legends, has come to me. He has warned me of what is to come. We pagans must stand together. Or we shall fall." --- Xanthus raises his hands into the air as the couatl stream overhead, wheeling through the skies with vicious screeches. Their target is Admiral Janus. This is Xanthus Alverold's chance to earn distinction. If the couatl manage to capture the rogue Admiral, then there is hope for an easy victory over the enemy fleet in Zul'Dare. Captain Caldwell and Cyrus are at his side. The trio remain at the docks of Boralus, issuing orders to prepare the ships for their voyage. "And what if the couatl are not successful?" Caldwell asks, as Xanthus looks over the rigging of one of the vessels. "Then, my dear captain, we will just have to kill him ourselves." Xanthus replies smugly. "And can we achieve that? Look at the ships we have here; damaged by storms or outfitted by imbeciles. The grand fleet has been inactive for too long. Janus took the best of our ships with him into rebellion." This seems to upset Xanthus, who avoids eye contact with Caldwell. "That's not my fault, is it?" "No sir! I didn't mean to imply-" "Then be silent, captain. Ready my vessel and be quick about it." Xanthus is soon approached by Vizier Kalabrond. Thaumas did not trust the man, because it was said that Phorcys envisioned him being traitorous. The truth of the matter had not yet come to light. Thaumas had ordered Kalabrond to arrange Janus' assassination to prove his loyalty, but such an event had not yet come to pass. "Grand Vizier, what is it you want?" "My lord." Kalabrond intones nervously. "I have information that may be of interest." Xanthus is immediately suspicious. Whatever the Vizier could be suggesting was possibly a trap, if he was indeed disloyal. "Speak, Vizier." "The information about the Zul'Dare rebel fleet came from a Lightist. Don't you think that is suspicious?" "Perhaps, but Admiral Thaumas made a deal with Cyrus and his people. They have reason to be loyal." "My lord, please." the Vizier pleads. "I have agents in Seashire. They claim that Mayor Zartus is secretly harbouring Janus. Zul'Dare may be a trap. Janus' fleet may be anchored, but his army is on land there. They are probably expecting us." --- Within days of mobalisation, Dorath Trollbane and his new Tribune have driven the Freedom Movement into the gutters. The local Arathi rebels do not even make a stand against the full might of the thousands upon thousands of men of the imperial legions. Thoradin's Wall is retaken overnight. The land is awash with glorious patriotism. Men rise up as they are called, armed and sent to honour their nation. Stromgarde has been mobilised. With domestic affairs secured in one swift stroke, one thing is left to handle. The Crimson Cabal has yet to be called. In the capital, Dorath Trollbane sits upon his silver seat alongside the golden throne, awaiting the arrival of the conjurers of the sacred fire. With the Tribune leading the armies, Dorath remains to oversee operations from the capital. Soon, three men enter. They are dressed in splendid red, their faces covered by masks. Their arms are bare and tattooed, and they wear a plethora of ornaments and rich garments about them. One would almost assume they were ritualists or priests. They were far from priests. These men are the three leaders of the Crimson Cabal; Magus Lijou, Magus Aszhard and Magus Elrich. The Crimson Cabal; hundreds of years ago, during the Troll Wars, Arathor had entered into an alliance with Quel'Thalas. The elves had taught one hundred humans how to wield magic. Those one hundred men had become fire magi; the Crimson Cabal. While many spellcasters had moved on to found Dalaran, Arathor never lost its original order of magi; its Crimson Cabal. The Crimson Cabal was isolationist and rarely interfered in any public affairs. However, Dorath had called them from their Tower today. It was something that had not been done in many years. Magus Aszhard bows to Dorath. "My lord, you summoned me?" --- The Benefactors and the dwarves are soon surrounded by soldiers with pikes. They bear the violet eye of Dalaran upon their tabards, and seem to fear the newcomers who have blasted a portal into the open for them. Kariel turns to Skirvar and bends low to whisper to him. "I hope you feel proud of the mess you made, little monkey. The blame is yours." Magus Rimtori raises her hands to settle the soldiers. "Be at ease, brave men and women of Dalaran. We are not your enemies. We are but humble spellcasters from Quel'Thalas. Our entrance was complicated by affairs which slipped beyond our control." A woman arrives, dressed in rich blue. Her eyes are a startling red. "Lay down your arms. Immediately!" she commands. The soldiers instantly back off and rush away, clearly terrified of her. Skirvar cannot help but wonder who this imposing woman is, that she may command such awe. She steps forward and shares a look with secret meaning with Kariel Winthalus. Kariel Winthalus bows to her respectfully. "Lady Zinizar, Archareveim. It is an honour." Kariel says smoothly. "Master Winthalus, we meet again. It is good to see that the Benefactors are alive and well." she replies. "We are indeed. King Anasterian is not yet bold enough to touch us pagans. His Lightist dogs hunger to tear us to shreds, but we are stalwart." Zinizar nods at him, but narrows her eyes. "Why have you come, my darling? I hope you realise that Dalaran belongs to the Hareveim of Zinine now, not your dear Mnesthes. I hope you don't intend to interfere with what I am achieving here." Kariel Winthalus shakes his head. "Pfah! Dalaran. What would we want with Dalaran? No. We come here because the time soon approaches when we pagans must forge our alliances. The Lightists are moving. We need to be prepared before they are. Take me to your leader." Skirvar, Urel and Jaril are left uncertain. Urel turns to Skirvar hastily. "Tha' was impressive, Skirvar! Ye truly are a sorcerer of calibre!" "Thank you, Urel." Jaril coughs. "Sorry te' interrupt ye lads, but we should get ourselves outta' this mess, real soon. Looks like we be dead centre in tha' middle o' the pagan capital o' Lordaeron! That bodes badly fer me, lads." "Well, we do got a messenger in Dalaran somewhere." Skirvar announces. Magus Rimtori looks down at them. "You are free to go, for now, my precious littlebeards. Just don't even dream about leaving the city. We will meet again soon. I will accompany Kariel Winthalus." "Aye, lassie." Urel says with a wink. "We aint going nowhere." It does not take long for word to spread of the newcomers. The dwarven messenger in Dalaran rushes to find them in the inn. Once in the inn, they all raise a drink together. The messenger is Grog Flintbuckle. He motions to let the other three dwarves let him speak. "I came 'ere a week or so ago, aye. The dictator in charge din' let me present my plans for a technological alliance. I dun' know how far he be interested, lads. But Skirvar, with you in 'person, maybe you can tell him yourself. You're the Thane, lad. He'll listen to ye." Jaril slaps Grog on the back. "Ye done well enough, lad. Stick with us from here on out. Now leme tell you 'bout our adventure in Zul'Aman!" Urel and Skirvar manage a laugh and bang mugs of ale into one another. The very mention of Zul'Aman and the hardships they have just been through send them into a fit of laughter and celebration at being free of it. --- Warester Van Dam sets out, using the safest and most secret of roads known to him. He avoids contact with anyone, for his priority is speed and a discreet passage. Whether the conference expects his attendance or not is not relevant. He is Grand Master. He goes where he chooses and when he pleases. Eventually, as all mortals must, Warester lies down to rest. He makes his camp by the main river which runs through Hesperia, cutting it in half. There is no campfire. Indeed, there is little to comfort him in the darkness and cold at all, but he does not need such luxuries. Suddenly, he is awoken in the dead of night. If not for his training and senses, he would never have heard the movement in the bleakness, through the growth. Truly, the disturbance could have been mistaken for wind, perhaps even for running water from the nearby river. Yet, Warester is not fooled. His hands close about the hilt of one of his daggers. The fate of Grand Master Krol springs to mind. The sound draws nearer, and becomes distinguishable. It is whispering. Warester strains to hear. "Ye sure?" "Shut up, you'll wake him." Under the light of the stars, Warester can see two figures. They are rugged men wearing loose and tattered orange outfits, buckled and buttoned in the fashion of the river pirates of Alterac. These were no doubt corsairs; licensed by Alterac to pillage and plunder all ships and raid all farms they wished, all as long as they were not properties of Alterac. In return, the corsairs would have to pay a share of their spoils to Lord Xie. "I won' shut up. It's prolly just a pisspoor farmer sleeping in the dirt." one of the voices says, rising in anger. Warester sighs; these blatant idiots where the kind of trash Ravenholdt made sure to avoid employing. "Who cares? Tie 'im up and bring 'im to the ship. We'll sell 'im to Gabranth in Alterac for the workforce he's buildin up. Admiral Faldren Darafel will pay us, an' we all go home happy." "Yeah? Ye think they'll let us sail around 'as free men when the war starts? They'll force us ta' fight. We need to get the ships into Darrowmere before that hell breaks loose." --- OOC: Rolled a 1 out of 6, best outcome for Sherman's conflict. Sherman. Sherman. That is the name of the one who stares into the face of death and chants his own name, to remind himself that he is no lesser man. Sherman has lived a hard life, adopted and being forced to fight for every inch of progress in his career. He proved himself by putting down various lesser pagan rebellions, in one instance earning him the title of Butcher. Now he is in Strattania, after five years of peace. He has witnessed his king, Alford Menethil, dismantle the People's Front with nothing but words and wisdom. Krowl was brought to justice. It is time for Sherman to prove himself once more. Upon the walls of Stratholme, he leads the defenses against the swarm of heretics that come to take the realm for themselves. But hours ago, his fleet docked in the north and travelled south into Stratholme. The Lordaeron army was here, under his command, prepared to protect the city from the Maroon Cult and its rampaging gnoll allies. "I wish Thomassy was with me now." Sherman mumbles to himself. Thomassy had a knack for oiling the army out of unpleasant situations, but Alford had kept him for some special assignments. Lieutenant Borett Pureblood runs his fingers through his slick hair. He is a Witch Hunter, the leader of the chapter sent to accompany Sherman's army. "Don't worry, Marshal. Not only do we have walls, but we have numbers. The mayor's spies report that the rabble coming our way probably can't even hack its way into the city." "Aye, you're probably right." Sherman says with a grunt. "But for the love of the Light, the most nerve wracking part is always waiting." Pureblood grins at his marshal. "Tis' always good when you admit you're only human, General. Only human, but you get on with the job anyway." "Shut up and keep a look out, Pureblood." Sherman says with a faint smile. Suddenly, a massive war cry echoes through the hills before them. It is followed by another bellow, and another, until it turns into a chorus. The earth shakes, and a massive rank of enemy soldiers appears over the ridges. They are followed by more ranks, and more, until it is a sea of steel, fur and blades flooding towards Stratholme. Gnolls and frenzied humans march side by side, two creatures from different worlds unified by one thing that they have in common; a love of violence. The Maroon God, Brux, a god of war and conflict, has unified his vastly different children into one army. "Light help us." Pureblood mutters. A lone figure rides forward before the gates of Stratholme. The man is tanned, bearing a splendid green cloak and carrying a sword forged to be carried in two hands in but one hand. "I am Wiglaf Folles, warlord of the Maroon March! I come on behalf of Amron of the Cult to cleanse your pitiful lands of cowardice! Brux will replenish our souls with battle! I offer no surrender, and there will be no quarter! Sagan's gnolls will feast on your flesh! I will feast on your flesh!" A roar rises up from the enemy army again, and Folles rides off to join his men. Then the attack begins. Sherman orders the archers to fire at will, and has the gates reinforced further. The assault is violent and utterly bloody. The Maroon cultists do not fear for their lives. They throw them away against the walls of the city, until the waters of the river are bloodied and the bridges are piled with the dead. Ladders are knocked down, but more are brought up. Eventually, the gnolls surge forward with battering rams, hammering the city gates. Sherman cuts and twists as cultists scale the walls, but is soon forced to attend the gates as they begin to give way. One of the soldiers stops him as he approaches the gates. "My lord, we cannot hold the gates for much longer! The gnolls have a warlord of their own. He is probably the only thing they fear." "Sagan." Lieutenant Pureblood murmurs. "You know of this creature?" Sherman asks. Pureblood nods. "Sagan is the lord of the gnolls in the Maroon Cult; at least that is what our witch hunters say." "Then we will take him down." Sherman replies. "Soldiers, rally behind me! Whatever comes through that gate; you will hold your ground!" The gnolls smash down the gates, and scream their way into the city. Sherman is the first to meet them. All doubt is gone from his mind. All fear has long since departed him. Sherman raises his shield and sword, and rips through hide, driving the beasts back without stepping back an inch. There is certainly no quarter, just as Warlord Folles had intended. With their numbers scattered at the gates and their strength buckled at the walls, Sherman's charge drives a wedge straight through enemy lines. Sherman does not stop at the gates, he leads his garrison out of the city and into the enemy horde. "For Lordaeron! FOR KING AND COUNTRY! ALFORD MENETHIL! RALLY TO ME! DEATH TO THE PAGANS!" Sagan was noticeably the largest of the gnolls present, bearing two huge axes and blind in one eye. He stands alongside Warlord Folles, overlooking the lost battle, snivelling and cackling; a mad, ferocious creature. "Take down the hierarchy from the top!" Sherman shouts. "Slay them, for the Light! Death to the Four Gods and all who serve them!" Sherman and Pureblood dance their way through enemy ranks, and reach the enemy commanders. The duel is short, and Sherman's superior skills quickly bring Folles to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Sagan is less simple. A whirlwind of axe, claw and tooth, the gnoll lord catches Pureblood at a disatvantage and batters the man to the ground. Sherman is uncertain if his friend is dead, but is nonetheless driven on by vengeance and hatred, until he plunges his sword through Sagan's mouth and skull, back, back, until the blade sinks into the bloodied earth, pinning the gnoll lord to the ground. The battle is won. Pureblood survives, though he is badly injured. Casualties are at a minimum. Indeed, the battle is probably the most heroic and glorious Sherman has ever fought in his carrier. Along with his soldiers, he is hailed through the streets of Stratholme as saviour that night. Yet, one main thing remains. What to do next. The hammer has fallen, and the Maroon March is defeated. There is a lot left to do, however. The Witch Hunters keep him updated; Tyr's Hand is under siege. Corin's Crossing, the headquarters of the Maroon Cult, is still standing. To the west, Hearthglen resists him under Canbrad and the new People's Front. Sherman and his soldiers are the last hope in retaking Strattania, as the main army to the west has not been able to breach the People's Front. The Witch Hunters bear him a letter from the Witch Hunter commander in the west. To Marshal Sherman, My lord, we made no dent against Hearthglen. Word has arrived quickly of your triumph, and our network of communication remains healthy. However, we must make a gamble. The People's Front is poised to move on Andorhal and cut off our supplies, and we hear that Tyr's Hand will soon fall. With your victory, we fear that the Maroon High Council at Corin's Crossing will escape before we can catch them. If you move on one city, we may lose another. What are your orders? Our Witch Hunter chapters are at your service. Yours sincerely, Witch Hunter Commander Adaen Melrache In Ambermill, Court Wizard Thomassy arrives on his errand on behalf of Alford Menethil. He identifies himself at the city gate and is led directly to the town hall. There he is met by a platoon of elite guards and escorted inside to the council hall. A tall and imposing figure stands staring out of a window at the city. His head is crowned by gentle black hair, falling around in curls. He turns to reveal a face with sharp features, high cheekbones and deep, green eyes. "It's been a long time, Grigori." "Ah, Thomassy. What an honour. Sit, sit." Grigori Dosantos beckons, and walks up to join his old comrade. "How are things in Lordaeron, Thomassy? I haven't visited in years." "As fine as they could be with pagans causing trouble - but I'm not here about pagans. I'm sure you've had enough problems with pagans." Thomassy says gruffly. Grigori Dosantos attains a distant expression, and he bites his lip. "Yes, Thomassy. I've had some problems with pagans as well. In fact, you've arrived at a rather bad time. As we speak, that son of a hound who rules Dalaran is sending my own armies against me. My own armies! Can you believe it? General Marius, once a man who was barely good enough to lick my boots is now trying to usurp me!" Thomassy sighs and rubs his cheek nervously. "Tough times, yes. Don't worry, Grigori. I haven't forgotten your plight." Grigori seems to be becoming upset, and Thomassy fumbles with his sleeve half heartedly. "You haven't forgotten my plight? Oh, well, I hope not, dear Thomassy! For you see, the army of Dalaran is on my doorstep as we speak! They're at the Port now! They've sunk some of our ships. Archmage Saadhal barely got away. He had to sacrifice William as a decoy to get out of there alive." "Ah, poor William. He was so good at cards." Thomassy grumbles. "So why are you here, Thomassy?" "Let's face it, Grigori. You're fighting a losing battle out on your own here. I'm your friend, but I'm not going to get myself killed for nothing. But I want to help you. Sadly, I can't help you while there are pagan armies in Lordaeron. So come with me. Get out of here, Grigori. You're only going to get yourself killed. Come with me to Lordaeron, and help me fix up these rusty old machines of absolute death and carnage we dug up in the royal gardens." "Abandon the Kirin Mora? Thomassy, why do you think life is so simple?" Grigori says with a sigh, raising the palm of his hand to his face to hide his despair. "No. I am not going anywhere. What do you want with machines, anyway? I'm not an engineer." "The golems we uncovered offer us a chance to unleash a mechanism of domination upon our enemies." Thomassy says, as if ignoring Grigori's doubts. "I am not as powerful a mage as you, so I'll need a member of the Council of Six in the very least to get these things working. If you don't want to come, then send Estheren or that other member of the Council who sided with you." Grigori stands up as if to walk away. "Estheren is dead. So is Cerelius. I am the last rebel member of the Council. The Kirin Mora lives because I live. But there is hope. I have contacted the Perinany Legion; they are considering pooling their forces to assist me." Thomassy shrugs. "Grigori, if you help me, I will help you. Lordaeron can turn its attention to Dalaran if domestic affairs are settled." Suddenly a horn is sounded. Soon, a soldier runs into the room. "Milord, the Dalaran legions are moving into the farmlands and it will not be long before they attack. What are your orders?" Grigori returns to Thomassy's side. "Help me, Thomassy. You've always been a damn brilliant genius. I know because we studied magic together and I remember how sharp you were. I'm fighting a losing battle here. My forces are depleted and my best magi are dead. Fight this last one with me, and I'll help you. And don't just tell me 'yes', tell me how you're going to save the day, hero." Category:Updates Category:By Timolas